I can say it’s my mother’s fault. She didn’t teach me how to cook. I was the only girl but growing up, she told me to compete with my brothers regarding education. After school, my extra classes teacher would come, and when he was gone, I would work on my assignment, do some reading and later go to bed. I didn’t bother about kitchen stuff because what to eat wasn’t a problem. My dad had an issue with it. My mom always fought back that I needed books than I needed to be in the kitchen.

Even when we had no house help, my mom cooked alone and served me. So I grew up with zero cooking skills. When I started dating, I vetted my men based on the qualities they expected from their women. When they mentioned, “I need a woman who knows how to cook,” I quickly found a reason to leave them until I got to a point in life where I realized that even those who didn’t say it still wanted it.

Instead of waiting for them to say it, I rather told them, “I don’t know how to cook. Just so you know.”

Most of them laughed, thinking I was joking. Others thought I knew how to do it but wasn’t ready to do it for a man. Those who believed me and yet wanted to be with me for the fun of it made excuses, “You don’t have to worry. When the time comes and we can afford it, we’ll hire a cook.”

Samson said the same thing but when the time came and he wanted to leave me, among the excuses he used to leave, cooking was part of it; “You don’t know how to control the kitchen. My mom would be disappointed in me if I took a lady like you home.”

  promised myself that no matter what it took, I would learn how to cook. Then came Matilda, a friend who can make a meal out of gravel and sticks. She grew up a house help in four different homes. Her fingers could sing love songs with food ingredients. She lived in the same house with me and was a friend. I told her about my problem and she decided to help.

I was at the stage where I could put blended onions and tomatoes in the oil and watch it simmer when our friendship came to an end bitterly. A guy she hoped would propose to her chose me instead. I didn’t even like the guy. I apologized to her for the guy’s proposal and promised her I would have nothing to do with the guy but it was too late. Her pride was touched. I made her insecurity appear larger than life so while I was home trying to make things better with her, she went to the guy, insulting me to the guy and telling him I didn’t know how to cook; “What do you see in her? She can’t cook to save her life.”

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Years later, I met Aaron. Aaron was desperately in love with me and I wanted to say yes to him but he said something that scared me. He said, “I’m looking for a wife and not a girlfriend. If you say yes to me, we’ll be a married couple in a year.”

“A wife? Can a woman who doesn’t know how to cook be a wife material?” I asked myself.

But Aaron was looking at something different. I was beautiful in his eyes and he also used my career as a reason I would suit him as a wife. I told him, “I’m very emotional to a fault. I have mood swings. I’m easily jealous and have records of destroying relationships with jealousy. I can be very confrontational too. Do you think you can handle me at my worst?”

I mentioned all my shortfalls but said nothing about cooking because, at that point, I knew I could learn it and be good at it in no time. He told me, “You can be all these when there are reasons to be but what if I don’t give you the reasons? What if I don’t give you a reason to have mood swings or be jealous? Let’s give us a chance and see what may come.”

I said yes to him.

I spent a few weeks online learning how to cook. I would cook the same dish several times until I felt I’d gotten it right before I moved to the next one. It was coming out just right and my confidence was soaring so much so that I started cooking for him.

He didn’t complain. I didn’t see sourness on his face while eating my food but one day, I went to his place and his fridge was stocked with different stews and soups. I had a stew in my hand when I went there. “Who brought these?” I asked.

“I bought them from a lady who cooks and sells.”

“You don’t like what I’ve been cooking for you?”

“Oh far from that. I just don’t want you to waste time on cooking. That’s all.”

“You call my cooking a waste of time? That’s alright. Marry the food seller.”

I stormed out of his place, carrying the palava sauce I’d used all night watching videos to prepare. When I compared what I did and the aroma of the ones I saw in his fridge, I felt pity for my palava sauce. Ɛnkɔ yie but pride won’t let me accept the situation and let things go without putting up a show. He came to my place to apologize; “I didn’t mean to call your cooking a waste of time. I just don’t want you to stress yourself.”

We talked. I asked questions, silly questions actually, like “Are you in love with the lady who cooked for you?” He retorted, “She didn’t cook for me. I bought them. I paid for her service.” “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” I said. “Are you sure she’s not making a way to your heart through the food?”

You can call these questions silly but I also asked the most important question; “Do you enjoy my food? I don’t want you to lie. Do you honestly enjoy it?”

His answer hurt me a little but once it was the truth  I accepted it in good faith and also told him the truth about my cooking skills.

“It’s not the best I’ve eaten,” he said.”But a woman is not her food that’s why I don’t complain. I told him, “I didn’t know how to blend onions until recently. I learned cooking because of you. I want to be your wife. I honestly want to but I don’t want food to come between us so I’m doing my best. I’ll get better I promise you. If only you’ll give me time.”

My cooking skills became a joke we laughed at while watching the TV, doing laundry or cleaning around. He would say, “Should I order something or you will like to give us your best poison?” I would say, “We don’t need to waste money on food when you have the best chef. I’ll cook. If we die we die.”

He would be with me in the kitchen. We would both run when the oil exploded. I would hide behind his back and put fish into hot oil. “You’re the man, face the oil.” We would watch cooking videos together. We would attempt it and fail but we would eat it. Cooking wasn’t a chore, it became a fun we had, a joke we shared, a taste we savoured. And the good thing is, because he stayed with me, he also learned a skill he didn’t know he needed.

He Woke Me Up At 2am And Asked Me To Go To My Mother’s House

Our third marriage anniversary comes so soon. I won’t call myself the best cook but we eat what we cook and don’t complain. We prepared a Japanese meal recently. We followed online tutorials until we got there. We didn’t know if we got the right taste because we couldn’t taste the online one to compare but what we had was edible. When we are bored, we cook. What I didn’t know is now our source of fun.

Our baby is a year old now. She’s a girl. I look at her and say, “Grow up quickly. There are so many recipes to try. Even when there’s nothing to cook, we don’t mind cooking you into a great woman who’ll love books and also know her way around the kitchen.

—Kayla

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